Monster
by The Weirdest Sister
Summary: Six pairs of hands, six monsters: Bellamy, Clarke, Zuko, Katara, Roy, Riza. Non-Crossover. Slight Bellarke/Zutara/Royai if you squint really hard.


**Author's Note:**

This is my first attempt at The 100, apologies in advance for OOC-ness, I'm still getting to know these characters!

A lot of characters from various shows/books/etc brush with their inner monster and struggle with what's wrong, what's right and what's in the middle. It's a theme I've seen these six characters in particular deal with. They're each so angsty and I just want to lock them up in their respective pairings and have them hug it out, but since _that's_ not possible, I wrote this instead!

Bellamy is set in between Ep7-Contents Under Pressure and Ep8-Day Trip.

I'm playing around a little with chapter structure since mixing three different worlds can be quite tricky—hopefully it works! Let me know what you think.

Inspiration: I would suggest listening to Monster by Imagine Dragons while reading this story.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the idea. Story portrait belongs to AliceinDeadLand on DeviantArt.

And as always, reviews are appreciated!

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**Monster**

**1. Bellamy**

It was too green here.

But then again, it was too grey on the Ark—grey metal and grey clothes and grey everything—and after that, the sudden vibrancy of Earth was almost unsettling. There was too much to look at, too many shadows and too many threats that could hide in them. Even when it was day and the sky was too blue, the light just made the hiding places all the more visible.

It was too much.

Some days, the sky was grey, and if he stayed inside the dropship, he could pretend he was back on the Ark where grey walls surrounded on all sides. He could pretend he was patrolling the corridors and working hard and keeping only _one_ person safe. But something or someone would always call him back down to Earth.

Right now, Bellamy wished for the grey and welcomed the green, because anything was better than the black of the nightmares that plagued him. Nightmares that led him to sit here, in the entrance of their camp away from his tent and his pillow and sleep, but mostly away from all the faces. Here, where even at night, through the touch of darkness, everything still looked green.

Bellamy leaned against the gate propped open behind him and tilted his head back with a muffled thud. He saw them almost every night. Atom, Charlotte, John, Diggs, Roma, Murphy, Dax. Even Jaha. The faceless 320 floated from the Ark. And now the grounder he had tortured. They just stared, at first, their eyes burning accusation and blame and guilt into his skin from all sides. Then, they chased him until there was nowhere to run and no where to hide; the only thing left to do was to succumb, to accept punishment from the people he had failed and killed, to believe what they chanted: _Monster, monster, monster… _

Bellamy knew how he appeared to the others: chaotic, demanding, harsh, unrelenting, cold, even brutal—things he never believed he could ever be. But who the hell could have predicted any of what had happened so far, and wasn't he the one who had said that who you became to survive and who you really were were totally different? So why was he so surprised, so _disturbed_, at how suddenly he had become _this_ person?

He _should_ blame himself, but it was so easy to blame others. His mother, for breaking the rules and birthing his sister. Octavia, for becoming his responsibility from her first breath. The Chancellor, for sending her to Earth. Shumway, for giving Bellamy both the threat and weapon that triggered the events that brought him here. Even Clarke, for always judging, loudly in his ear or silently through her eyes. It seemed like his life was being thrown from one set of hands to another, like his choices weren't his.

No, that wasn't true. _He_ took Octavia out of hiding. _He_ agreed to shoot the Chancellor. _He_ took control of the 100 sent down despite knowing the burden would eventually become too heavy. _He_ pushed everyone to remove their wrist band monitors. _He_ destroyed the radio from Raven's podship. And it was all these choices, and the results of those choices, and more choices after that, that led him to be _this._

It was self preservation. That was the only thing that could justify why he took charge so quickly. Why he dominated. Why he was how he was. Because maybe, if everyone followed _him_, listened to _him_, there would be a chance of survival when the others came down. And so what if he hid that selfishness under the guise of finally being able to do what ever the hell he wanted and protecting Octavia, because it all seemed so much more acceptable if it was in the pursuit of freedom and so much more noble if it was for someone else's wellbeing. Not that _she_ saw it that way.

Bellamy looked down at his hands, now resting palm up on his folded knees—hands that caused those faces to haunt him in the dark—and wondered: How many more would die with him in charge of this ragtag group? How many more would he fail? And when would that burden be snatched from him by the Chancellor? It felt like it was _him_ hiding his face at the masquerade party, tentatively letting go but always looking over his shoulder, waiting for the bullet he knew would eventually land.

There was another option. He could leave. Before the rest of the Ark came down, before the Chancellor came for his head. The others were managing, Miller and Monroe could take over, Clarke was there, and she could watch out for Octavia as well. They could be fine, and he could run and live—Bellamy's hands closed into tight fists. No. He was many things, but coward? No.

_No_.

Maybe.

Bellamy yawned. Time to face _them _for a few hours and maybe, the answer would be found tomorrow.

Back inside camp again, he quietly eased the gate closed and started towards his tent. He was almost there when a flicker of orange and yellow stopped him.

There was a small fire burning in the pit at the centre of camp and someone was sitting in front of it.


End file.
